


Burning for His Love Whom I Love

by hellhoundtheory



Series: Leaves of Grass [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, High School, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundtheory/pseuds/hellhoundtheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Steve make it back to Steve's after the events in health class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning for His Love Whom I Love

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Walt Whitman’s Calamus-Leaves  
> Also, for new readers, at least read Be Not Too Rough With Me before this one for context.  
> Still not tagging underage because they're high school seniors and above the age of consent but if someone has a problem with that I will happily tag it.

Steve, like usual, waits for Bucky by his locker at the end of the day. While Steve lived on the opposite side of town from Bucky, he had insisted on driving Steve home every day since he first got his beat up old Corolla. Bucky liked to say it was because Steve’s bus stop let out almost half a mile from the apartment and Steve’s asthma was too much of a risk, but Steve knew better than that, because it showed that Bucky liked the company when he drove. Since it usually led to them hanging out at one of their houses, it had led to them spending a lot more time together in the past two years.

Which had been driving Steve crazy with want. Until the moment Bucky’s gaze met his in the yellow light of the health classroom and he realized that his want was reciprocated.

So, unlike usual, he bounced beside Bucky’s locker, jittery with a feeling of anticipation that lit up his mind with fresh depth, as he fiddled with the cuff of his jacket and bit at his lip, wishing that he had chapstick as a piece of skin peeled off under his ministrations.

Just as he starts to think that Bucky’s taking longer than usual, Bucky’s there and Steve’s staring at him like a deer in the headlights and not saying anything. Bucky runs a hand over the back of his neck, murmuring a, “Hey.”

Steve lets out an awestruck, “Hi,” and the shy smile Bucky gives him lights up something in his chest and starts gathering the strands of _something_ in his lower belly and tightening them.

Before he knows it, Bucky’s put his books in his locker and grabbed his copy of _Leaves of Grass,_ tucking it into his backpack before looking at him expectantly.

Steve chuckles, “You really gonna work on your essay?”

The shrug Bucky returns is forced, “Maybe I like the poems.” Warmth flutters all over his body and Steve can’t help but think that Bucky’s going to be a great English major, whatever he does with it.

“Maybe you could read me some. I think you did a good job in class.”

Bucky sends him a questioning look and Steve worries that he’s overplayed his hand, that everything is going to come crashing down, right here in the student parking lot. That Bucky doesn’t want him.

Unbeknownst to him, they’ve made it to the car and Bucky’s jiggling the dial to get the heat to work, murmuring, “I’d like that.”

“Hmm?” Steve asks. Bucky tosses his backpack in back and closes the car doors before answering, eyes dark and voice still quiet, lips barely moving.

“Reading to you. I’d like that. Especially with Whitman.”

A smile tugs at Steve’s lips and he lets it show, “Good.” Bucky puts on the radio and they’re silent for the ride to Steve’s place, where Steve is painfully aware that his mother isn’t home and that he doesn’t actually have that much homework for once. Bucky parks and sends him another of those smiles that don’t reach hooded eyes before hopping out of the car, taking his backpack with him like usual. 

Steve gulps and follows. His hands shake as he unlocks the outside door, but he manages to calm himself down by the time he makes it to the apartment door, mostly because the warmth of Bucky’s palm is pressed, possessive, against the small of his back, the fingers digging in like a promise.

His breathing staggers as he closes the door behind him and the grip tightens, fingers slipping under his jacket.

One layer.

Bucky drops his backpack and Steve’s dropping his with a heavy thud milliseconds later, letting himself be crowded against the door, hands reaching up to Bucky’s shoulders on instinct as those seeking hands crawl under his shirt, short fingernails scraping from his spine to the very outset of his hips.

A whine escapes his throat as their noses touch, breath mingling hot and heavy in the space of inches between their mouths. The knot coiling in his belly tightens indescribably as they hover on the cusp of touching, breathing the same air, Steve’s fingers brushing the small hairs at the back of Bucky’s neck, running over the muscle of his shoulder through that old leather jacket.

“Steve,” Bucky breathes out like a prayer in the most intimate sense of the word, licking and biting his own lips out of habit or entreaty. Either way, Steve answers by furiously closing that space, entirely unaware of how to kiss but knowing that all he wanted was the delicate burn of those lips on his.

Hands grasp and tighten around his hips, both pushing him against the solid structure of the door and pulling him flush to Bucky’s hips and the hard length straining against jeans.

Steve finally lets himself wrap around Bucky, fingers digging into yielding flesh and lips parting in a sigh even as Bucky’s tongue slips in, pressed against the sharpness of his teeth and then pushing against Steve’s own. 

And then it’s gone again and he’s not sure that was his favorite thing about kissing; which is okay because then Bucky’s biting at _Steve’s_ bottom lip like Steve’s thought about for years and _that_ is his favorite thing. 

When Steve reciprocates, teeth digging into that full bottom lip he’s only been able to stare at for so long, the sigh Bucky gives in return and the sharp feeling of Bucky’s fingernails biting along either side of his spine like a vice makes Steve recorrect the list of favorite things he’s mentally making. 

Then Bucky grabs one of Steve’s legs and hikes it up so that he can grind into Steve and he loses the contents of his list in the fire that flares in his belly and the friction reaching into his chest and forcing out a gasp. Bucky almost chuckles, but Steve plants a hand in Bucky’s hair—something to hold onto—and tugs, and then Bucky’s breaking the kiss to keen against Steve’s jaw, weakly biting down on Steve’s pulsepoint in an attempt at retaliation. And, _oh,_ the pain-pleasure of it is all too good. 

He tugs again, hoping to get the same reaction, and Bucky practically growls, resuming the kiss with force, tongue penetrating his mouth like Bucky’s fucking him, hips jackrabbiting in the same motion against Steve’s. 

All he can do is grab on and let the sensations wash over him, helplessly thrusting back in spasms, fingers gripping into short hair and lips open and panting, “Bucky, Buck, fuck, Bucky, _yes_ ,” even as Bucky’s lips skate around his, hot with breath.

But then Bucky’s backing down and Steve’s coming back down to earth, leg falling gracelessly to the floor and hips thrusting the air without relief. His hands are still clinging to Bucky’s neck and shoulders, but Bucky leaves them, his own hands coming to rest on the door on either side of Steve’s head. Steve whines at the loss and Bucky shushes him.

“Shit, Steve, we just gotta slow down or this is gonna be over before it starts.” Bucky’s voice is breathy and Steve is only hanging onto reality by the barest of threads just looking at him. He glances down at the ground but all he can do is stare at the foot of space that separates their clothed erections and wish it _gone._ He tugs at Bucky’s belt loops, petulant and breathless with the idea that Buck was hard for him, that they would finally be on the same page if Bucky would stop with this whole _slowing down_ thing.

Bucky grabs at his hands, closing over them and grinning before walking them further into the apartment, feet nearly colliding in the space between, “Come on, Stevie, let’s go to your room.”

Steve lets himself be dragged along, never letting go of the rough feeling of Bucky’s belt loops digging into the flesh of his index fingers and grounding him, keeping him from floating away just on the friction of his dick against the strained fabric of his jeans.

White teeth still hinting from behind smirking lips, Bucky leads Steve over to the chaise, kissing Steve’s neck up to his ear and whispering, “Lie down.” 

He shivers and can’t help but obey, wanting nothing more than to bring Bucky with him, but letting go of the belt loops as Bucky’s fingers urge his to do. Without any points of contact, Steve feels empty, the fire burning inside him flickering with the loss. 

Then Bucky’s saying, “Take your clothes off,” voice low with arousal, and Steve’s hands are automatically going to his belt buckle before he realizes that he’s still wearing his jacket and shirt.

Bucky stands with his hands on his hips, waiting. Watching. 

Steve shrugs off his jacket and tugs his shirt over his head with trembling hands. 

There’s an intake of breath from Bucky and Steve bites his lip, resisting the urge to look up, letting himself imagine adoration on Bucky’s face, even if it’s not there. 

He lifts his hips and shucks off his jeans along with his briefs. He’s erect with the cold of the room and the prickle of Bucky’s gaze on him. Wrapping a hand around himself, he looks up to see Bucky’s pupils dilated, blue iris a slim ring around black and hand palming himself absently through his jeans. 

He seems to steel himself, taking a breath and clambering onto the chaise with Steve, legs on either side of Steve’s and lips pressing butterfly kisses along the bony jut of Steve’s clavicle.

“Buck,” he breathes out as Bucky’s jeans brush against the head of his penis, sending an electric current through him. 

His best friend’s voice is low when it starts, timid and hot against the shell of Steve’s ear, “The expression of the face balks account. But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,” Bucky presses the barest of kisses to Steve’s cheek, and Steve thinks that he’d never shivered so hard at a chaste kiss when his body arches against Bucky’s because he _knows_ what Bucky’s saying to him.

“It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,” Bucky’s lowering himself down as he says it, breath skating moist against the goosepimpled skin of Steve’s chest until there’s a sucking kiss latched on Steve’s hip and he’s grasping for purchase in the short strands of Bucky’s hair as he writhes.

“It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,” There’s another bite into his neck and he can feel the hard planes of Bucky’s body—the ones he knows through sketch—through the fabric of his clothes, and all Steve wants is to know him by touch, even as his hands roam the small patch of skin where Bucky’s shirt has ridden up.

“The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,” Bucky takes off the leather jacket and Steve seizes the opportunity to run his hands over skin, basking in the heat of Bucky’s body and the rhythm the barest thrusting of Bucky’s dick makes against his hip.

“To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more. You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.” He knows Bucky’s skipping parts, but it’s so much better this way, as Bucky lets Steve peel away the layer of his teeshirts. He’s kissing inches and feet of skin as they reveal themselves to him, experimentally scraping teeth over a dusky nipple, reveling in the low grumble and the moment it takes Bucky to collect himself, mouthing at the flesh where Steve’s neck meets his shoulder. 

Bucky gets up, gangly but unashamed as he slowly strips off his jeans, “The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro,” Bucky’s back atop him, and their dicks are lined up in his hand as they each breathe out in dual relief and anticipation, “In the heave of the water.”

Then their lips are a feverish mess of panting and sloppy kisses hitting noses and chins as Bucky takes them in his hand and starts stroking, tight and spit-slick and Bucky’s _still_ talking, “The natural,” Steve tugs at his hair again, other hand roaming that broad back, and Bucky downright moans into his mouth, “Perfect,” Steve’s breath hitches as their eyes meet and Bucky forms the word before kissing it into Steve’s skin like a brand, “The bent head,” Bucky’s other hand cups Steve’s jaw and brings their lips together in something that would be chaste if his hand weren’t jacking them furiously, slick with pre-come and sweat and spit and the heat of breath, “The curv’d neck and the counting,” Bucky whines against Steve’s neck as Steve takes over, finally able to get his hand around Bucky’s velvety hardness, ignoring himself to thumb at Bucky’s slit, to trace just under the head.

Bucky’s face is open and panting and Steve feels him clench above him and kisses the final words—these ones, he knows—into Bucky’s flushed skin as his spills over Steve, “Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely.” 

And then Steve’s coming too because Bucky’s tiredly holding himself above Steve and wrapping his hand around Steve and it’s one, two pulls and he’s gone, spilling onto both of them as his entire body arches off the chaise and Bucky kisses him down, murmuring sweaty endearments into his lips and temple, “Love you when you come for me, wanted to do this for so long, so beautiful, so good, love you, god, Stevie.” 

It’s hot, and they’re sticky with come and Steve’s still burrowing into Bucky’s chest, letting Bucky wrap around him and kissing back the moment he can breathe again, murmuring weakly, “Loved you for years, idiot.”

“I think our teachers noticed,” Bucky breathes, nose nudging Steve’s forehead through a tangle of sweaty hair.

“Please don’t talk about our teachers while we’re naked.”

Bucky kisses his neck and capitulates, “We need to have a conversation about that when we’re clothed, though, because I don’t think it was just Miss Darcy.”

“Monsieur Dernier,” Steve admits, knowing they were going to have this conversation, clothed or not.

“Romanoff.”

“Barton,” Steve says, and Bucky hisses.

“Remember how just Saturday I was here, naked for all of three hours and you did nothing but sketch?” _We could have been doing this all Saturday. But I didn’t think he wanted me._

Well, he didn’t just sketch, “And think about Fury’s other eye to get rid of my hard-on, yes.”

“Really? Huh. That’s probably a better idea than imagining him naked.”

“Ew.” Steve rolls out of Bucky’s embrace as if to leave and then back in, putting his forehead on that broad chest, “Don’t ever put that image in my head again.”

“Okay. I will only ever think of you naked. Suffer from constant erections. Never flagging, never wavering. Forever without brain function, unless you release me.”

“Stop being dramatic.”

Bucky presses a half-hard length against the meat of Steve’s thigh, “Not being dramatic. Not if that’s what you do to me.” 

Steve isn’t quite there yet, but he would be soon if Bucky kept rubbing up against him like that, dragging his hands up and down Steve’s side—an almost ticklish sensation that wracked his entire body in movement and sensation.

He forces himself to get up and ignore Bucky’s pitiful whine, “I’m going to go get clean. Join me?” He quirks an eyebrow at the way _all_ of Bucky perks up at the idea.

“Not going to be much cleaning going on,” Bucky says leisurely as he stumbles up.

Steve pulls him into a kiss, “I think I’ll live.” And then they’re under the heat of the shower and flames are flickering deep in his belly as Bucky’s hands clench at Steve’s hips and all he can think is, _Finally._

**Author's Note:**

> Poetry bits are from Whitman's I Sing the Body Electric  
> this was supposed to be funny first timey stuff and it just turned erotic and schmoopy i'm sorry I am not a comedy writer for a reason


End file.
